


Underneath

by funnylittleguy



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Human Biology, Literature, M/M, and julian's lack thereof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funnylittleguy/pseuds/funnylittleguy
Summary: Any good spy has a catalogue of the physical weaknesses of those around him. The problem with Doctor Bashir is that he seems to have none of the former and too many of the latter. The problem with Elim Garak is that he doesn't have the will to exploit him.--In other words: Julian is an augment, but that doesn't mean he's perfect. Garak notices this, of course; whether or not he says anything is another matter.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	1. The Dark (featuring Maurice by E.M Forster)

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i hope this makes sense. i'm going to be using gay literature that i've read in place of perhaps more well-known classics because i'm gay. i recommend everything i mention!
> 
> this first chapter takes place before the wire episode.
> 
> ALSO, this is more a collection of moments that will end with Garak getting the news that julian is an augment. there's not really a storyline. somewhere in between they'll get together i guess

The lights flickered in the Replimat for the third time during Garak’s carefully-formulated and well-executed argument. He sniffed, exasperated; it meant that his lunchmate was distracted a third time, and riveting his already skittish gaze back to the discussion was no small task. 

“As I was saying, Doctor,” Garak began, feeling the conversation slip between his fingers rapidly and without much polite recourse, “Your criticisms of Durham are entirely anachronistic—by all means a man should be able to openly express love for whomever he desires, but when it is in conflict with the modality of _his_ modern society, that is to say, Great Britain four centuries ago—”

Bashir’s gaze was fixed on a point far beyond Garak’s shoulder. Pressing his lips together, Garak followed his friend’s stare until he, too, was watching the unsteady blinking of the Promenade lights. So much for _Maurice_ , then. And to think, he’d given Bashir such an easy volley with his last point to launch himself into any number of diatribes… He leaned forward in his seat, determined to bring Bashir’s attention back to him, when he caught the reflection of the lights in his murky eyes. They were as green as the borderland swamps on Cardassia, which was to say rather brown, but green enough that the nature of the true hue was a topic of passionate debate between Cardassian poets and landscape artists.

That was when all the lights in the Promenade shut off. Garak grimaced. Night vision was, thankfully, something the Cardassian evolutionary path had considered a particularly important avenue. So much so that the near-blinding lights of the station had driven him into bouts of rage-induced exhaustive episodes, but he had the wire for that now. But, if Garak remembered correctly, his friend hadn’t been blessed with the same: humans were notorious for their inability to do anything at night without vision goggles. That must’ve been why Bashir was so nervous; he’d need a flashlight to finish his lunch, and that was a two-handed affair for him. 

He was delightful in the dark, though, wasn’t he. Garak’s eyes were meant for this; colors were much richer, less garish. Though living aboard the Station had dulled his vision somewhat, he could still appreciate the undertones of Bashir’s complexion, how much softer his hair looked when it wasn’t bombarded with the white glare from the Replimat’s overhead lights.

“Garak, are you all right?” Bashir’s voice rose above his internal dialogue. He reached out and grabbed Garak’s hand where it was resting on the table. _How…_ He looked up to see Bashir doing the same thing, _meeting his eyes,_ following them as they shot to the side in surprise. _How!_

“I’m fine,” Garak managed to choke out, his instincts mounting to a twitching in his legs to get up and run. _Not that it’d take you far,_ he reminded himself. No, he couldn’t run. He had to talk, talk, talk until the lights came back on and he could toss his dishes back into the replicator, and then once he rounded the corner maybe _then_ he could run, provided Bashir couldn’t somehow catch up with him. “But, uh, back to Durham—”

Bashir suddenly drew back as if burned by the skin of Garak’s hand. “Sorry,” he said. “I just… can’t see very well, and I thought if I was touching you…” He sighed. “I’m not sure.”

“Quite all right,” murmured Garak, missing the warmth. He swallowed thickly and continued, “Just another folly of humanity.” He flinched. “Much of it, anyway.”

Bashir shook his head, or maybe nodded, it was difficult to tell. “Yes. Um… What about Cardassians? Can you see me?”

“I can tell you’re quite frightened. Are you afraid of the dark, Doctor?” Damn, that was supposed to _ease_ the tension, not thicken it—Bashir inhaled sharply, exhaled in quite the same manner. Garak wasn’t going to mention his claustrophobia, but he would have, had he been a better friend and not a former Obsidian Order operative. “I apologize.”

“Rather childish, I know.” The doctor grimaced.

All of his training was telling him to run, get away from the freakish human whose vision could cut through the dark, but Bashir was clearly on edge, and he wasn’t sure when the lights would turn back on. “But on the contrary—I’d say it’s an evolutionary advantage. What you can’t see is often the most dangerous.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Bashir relaxed somewhat. Garak felt confidence bubble up in him: “Here, give me back your hand. That way you’ll at least know where I am.”

“I—” The refusal got stuck halfway in his throat like a piece of larish pie. Bashir cleared it gently, opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to say, “Well, all right.”

He reached out to lay his hand on top of Garak’s as he had before. Perhaps the darkness was emboldening him—Bajorans couldn't see a thing, he was sure—because he lifted his own hand up and laced their fingers together, squeezing gently. 

“Just don’t tear it off when I tell you what I thought of Scudder,” said Garak. _I hope they never turn on those wretched lights again,_ he thought. Julian Bashir’s smile was so much better in the dark.


	2. Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak gets a taste of Julian's strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i used the direct script for this one lol. hope you don't mind too much!

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Bashir said, holding his chin high. Foolish, prideful, _weak,_ so weak. Couldn’t separate his own feelings from the objective reality; Garak was a criminal, and what had been following him through the halls of Deep Space Nine was finally, rightfully, catching up to him. He’d killed and spared the wrong people by both Cardassian and Federation standards. Even if he didn’t deserve to die, in some cosmic sense, he deserved the pain, the spasms that wracked his body. Retribution. The inevitable turnabout. 

Somehow, Bashir was still going: “I thought you enjoyed my company.”

Garak scoffed, disgusted. Not even with Bashir, no, that would be too easy: he hated himself for getting to this point, where a Federation doctor was in his quarters, grabbing his wrists to feel his pulse, concerned about him. How soft must he have gotten to have someone like Bashir feel sympathy for him? He was a monster. A monster who had hurt a human Starfleet officer by saying he didn’t enjoy _lunch_ with him.

He turned, shaking his head. “I did. That’s the worst part. To think that I actually _enjoyed_ eating mediocre food while staring at your smug, sanctimonious face.” Bashir’s mouth pressed into a thin line. _Good,_ Garak thought savagely. Another surge of roiling, particularly excruciating pain cut through him, and Garak spat, “I _hate_ this place, and I hate _you.”_

Bashir’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then opened again. Damn his Starfleet bedside manner, Garak wanted him to get _mad,_ to yell at him, to push him to the ground and pin him there, hatred seething in his swampy eyes. All that intelligence, and for what? Garak’s legs threatened to buckle beneath him as they spasmed. “All right, _Garak,"_ Bashir said through clenched teeth, “that’s your prerogative. But I really think you should lie down.”

A hand, feather-light, touched the small of Garak’s back. Rage hotter than—or maybe because of—the wire struck his entire body like an electric current, reanimating him. “No! Get away from me!” He jerked away from the touch; he wanted to sink his teeth into it, tear it to pieces and feel the hot blood drip down his chin and onto his clothes, staining them irreparably. _Let them see what happened here._

It was hardly Garak who decided to grab hold of Bashir; it was predetermined, the only way this could end. He couldn’t save him. Not with all the time and medicine in the world: Garak was doomed, he deserved his fate, and Bashir deserved his punishment for trying. With all of his strength and then some, he flung the doctor into his medical supplies, scattering them and him to the floor.

The medical supplies remained where they were, but Bashir was on his feet in a moment, faster than Garak had ever been. His forearms—armor-less, defenseless, _weak—_ shielded his face from any more blows. Garak bellowed with rage, and tackled Bashir from the midsection; the sound was almost words, almost a voiced command to _HURT ME._

Bashir twisted out of his grip as if Garak had merely wrapped him in a polite hug. Another spasm, but it only served to make him angrier; he bucked against Bashir’s touch, still so gentle, attempting to _disarm_ him, to get him back to bed so he could die supine, staring at the ceiling of a ship whose owners had abandoned it and him, listening to a Federation doctor scoff about Cardassian literature until his heart stopped and his eyes rolled into the back of his skull. 

Garak swung his fist, Bashir ducked. It went on like this. It should have ended by now. Bashir, with his thin limbs and uniform that swallowed him up, should have been unconscious, battered beyond recognition. Garak was an ex-Obsidian Order operative, one of the best; just because he’d spent the past few years sitting on his tail sewing Bajoran wedding dresses didn’t mean he had forgotten how to kill.

And yet, Bashir stood, determined, hair ruffled and chin held high. He looked like the enemy in Garak's literature, the one he always liked more. _Weak. Can’t do what’s right._

“Garak,” Bashir said, barely out of breath, “Stop this. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 _You should,_ Garak wanted to say. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. _What’s_ wrong _with you?_

He reared his fist back, having accepted that Bashir would catch it and throw it aside somehow. But he was never given the chance: the wire struck first. Julian was upon him the moment he crashed to the floor.

 _Do it._ He gasped for air. _Do it, do it. I know you can._

“Bashir to Infirmary.” _No!_ He pawed at the air. Bashir could kill him right now, do what needed to be done, do what everyone else on the damned station would have done the day they’d met him had they been given the chance. It wouldn’t even make him break a sweat, Garak knew; put his hands around his neck and nose and wait. _Weak, weak, weak…_ The rest of Bashir’s request turned into buzzing in his ears as his vision swam. Through the haze he felt a pair of hands grab him by the shoulders and haul him to the infirmary bed in the middle of the room. He moaned his protest; Bashir didn't listen.

"You're going to be all right," he might have said. "I'm not going to let you die. You're stronger than them."

Garak's head lolled on the pillow. _"You_ are," he rasped. "You are."

"Shh," Bashir said. Compliance was the only option now. Garak closed his eyes. He was in the middle of thinking he deserved a worse death than this when Bashir administered a sedative. Absent of any more fanfare, he slipped into a fog more brown than green.


End file.
